


A New Garden, In a Way

by static_mouth



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Genderfluid Aziraphale (Good Omens), Genderfluid Character, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation, Rimming, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Top Crowley (Good Omens), aziraphale enjoys those earthly pleasures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26324881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/static_mouth/pseuds/static_mouth
Summary: Post-Armageddon, Crowley worries that Aziraphale will have no more interest in Fraternizing with him. I mean, niether of them answer to Heaven or Hell. Is the Arrangement still on? Will he see his Angel again? Aziraphale struggles with his deeply-ingrained moral reluctance to give into his desires and needs - especially his fantasies involving Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

Demons are only demons because they didn't fit in back in heaven. They, for example, ask too many questions, or hang around the wrong people, or show compassion in the wrong places - wield their love in a way that the higher-ups didn't think was appropriate. "You should love everything, for there is God in everything," they would say. But the moment you truly did that, they kicked your miserable arse out. Stuck up bastards.

Crowley sits. Thinking. Running his thumb along the leaf of a plant. Spotless. Good. He's scowling nonetheless. The flat is dark - of course it is. When isn't it? He finds himself both reveling in it and missing the light. Missing his light. 

It's been a few days since he's seen Aziraphale. And over these past few days he’s found himself worrying. Why? Because Armageddon was over, and they belonged to Earth now. Of course, he and his Angel had always belonged to earth-

Fuck. No. He can't call Aziraphale that. Angel, sure. But his?

"You go too fast for me, Crowley," he had said. Worse somehow was that he said it with all the compassion and pain of someone who. . . loved him back? 

But it was true - Crowley did go too fast. Heaven and Hell had been watching them, then. If he had Tempted an angel into his flat, if he had tempted an angel to bless him with a kiss. . . Who knows what Hell would do to him, honestly, and Heaven? He could have put Aziraphale in a serious. . . situation. Predicament. He shuddered thinking about it, scowling even more. He should never have suggested Aziraphale come back to his place, or that they go off together, or any of that nonsense. Not back then. But in those moments, he felt he just Had to say something.

But something flickers in Crowley now. A thought that he's grown accustomed to fighting down. A hope that he's battled for years upon years. He hears Aziraphale in his head, rejecting his stupid and reckless offers of company. He hears the pain in Aziraphale's voice of reason, like there's nothing he would rather do than run away with Crowley and let go, but that the risk is too big. Sure, it could be foolish to think that Aziraphale wanted Crowley in all the same ways that Crowley wanted Aziraphale. . . but he couldn't help hopefully reading into all the subtle signs over the years that Aziraphale was. . . interested. 

If he was in the Angel's position - if he was an angel, and Aziraphale was a reckless and passionate demon who drove too fast and stared longingly at him, and they were in love, he supposed he would have to say no to any explicit indicators that would give them away. Better to be able to be with each other, and just hold back his longing to touch Aziraphale and press his body against his and Take . . . well, than to do those things and have his angel - no, not his - taken away from him somehow. Better an extended period of Some than a period of All which would be cut short.

But that was then. It's an idea Crowley can't shove out of his mind. Things have changed. Everything has changed. But when he, as softly as he could, invited Aziraphale to his place, Aziraphale had said no, again. With that sad-puppy look in his eyes. Just because Crowley had understood why he said no didn't mean he hadn't wanted to get on his knees and plead with Aziraphale. Now, either he had to talk to Aziraphale, or he had to keep holding his desires in check for eternity. Neither option sounded terribly appealing. 

Crowley growls, his eyes flashing, and stands up abruptly. He goes over to the front door to his flat, intending to stand outside and sulk and glower at passers by. What if, instead of reaching for the door handle and opening up the door and sulking, he was met with the image of Aziraphale? What if, instead of waking up after a long nap to the blank feeling of his sparsely decorated bedroom, he woke up to that soft, beautiful, perfect face? 

He opens the door and is given one extra thing to sulk about when his flash of fantasy doesn't come true. 

"Get over yourself, Crowley," he mutters to himself. After all, it's only been a few days. Of course they both need time to adjust to the absence of the eyes on them at all times. And anyway, they can go around doing whatever the fuck thay want, just like they always had, and that could be enough. That could always be enough. Crowley would take that over anything else any day. Well, over almost anything else. Time to stop thinking. 

Crowley returns inside and pours himself a glass of whiskey. He lays down, draped dramatically over his leather couch. He knows he's being dramatic, of course he does, and he can only hope that he's achieving the sexy, brooding type of drama that he's going for. 

What on earth is he doing? It's a good question. One that he's asked several times in the past few days. He yells at his plants, of course. He paces. He sits. He lies down. He naps. He goes outside to watch people. He's not always in this sour mood - after all, there are many reasons he fell in love with earth, and he can watch those reasons happening from his position outside the flat. But now. . . He's bored. 

"I am afraid we are closed-" 

"It's me," Crowley interrupts, as he so often does in situations like these. Situations that involve him getting bored and calling Aziraphale, and becoming un-bored suddenly. 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale greets him in that way he does. It makes Crowley's human chest swell with emotions so strong that he thinks there's no way an average human should be able to endure them without popping. 

"Hey, Angel."

"How are you, Dear?" Crowley doesn't think he'll ever get used to that - he hasn't thus far. 

"I'm booooored," he says, drawing out his 'o' in a petulant manner. Aziraphale chuckles from his bookshop. 

"Don't you have any hobbies, Demon, besides saving humanity and being a spooky driver?" Aziraphale asks. "Oh, and yelling at poor innocent plants to grow better?" he adds, for good measure. His tone is light and Crowley wants to watch his lips forming the words, as he so often does. 

"Hm. Sometimes I go out to eat with a certain angel," he responds. "But other than that, not really."

Aziraphale chuckles again. "Right, well I suppose you could try that one, then, if you're bored." It sounds an awful lot like an invitation. A Temptation, even. Hope swells inside of Crowley.

"You know? I think I just might. Let me ask him." Aziraphale makes a noise of affirmation from the other end. "Hey Angel?" Crowley asks.

"Yes Crowley?" Aziraphale responds, playing up his curiosity for the sake of the game they've just come up with.

"Would you care to accompany me for uh... fuck. It's 2am isn't it? There's nowhere good open." 

"No, I suppose not," Aziaphale replies, dropping his act. His voice has a tone of finality that makes Crowley's chest ache. 

"Well ah..." he thinks. He doesn't want to wait until tomorrow. He doesn't want to wait a second longer. But that's how he feels every time this happens, and he's always waited anyway. Somebody knows it's worth it. 

"Crowley?"

He realizes he'd been silent after he trailed off. "Right, right. Well. I suppose people do eat at home sometimes. Is what I was going to say."

"Yes, I suppose. But. . . we don't, do we?"

"I don't think we ever have. . . Not me at least. Certainly not together. Why haven't we done that, Aziraphale?" 

His friend remains silent for a while. "Think about how that would have looked, Crowley." Aziraphale sounds somber now. A bit pained. What pains him? 

Crowley nods, though Aziraphale can't see. "I know, I know." He gives his own voice an exasperated flair. "But they're not looking now, are they?" There's a fire in him, a different one than his constant hellish flicker. "What's stopping us, Aziraphale?" It's the wild, conspiratorial tone he'd used to try to convince Airaphale to go off with him last time. Alpha Centauri. He could already feel his incoming crisis. Aziraphale wouldn't want to. And that would be okay, but it would feel like a punch to the gut anyway. Why couldn't he just stop asking?

The other end has been silent far too long. 

"Crowley..."

"Aziraphale, please." He doesn't know what he's asking for. 

"Please what, exactly, dear?" Aziraphale's voice had gone soft. There's hope in that. 

That's a good question. "Please... please tell me why you won't let me get close to you. Even now." He wishes he couldn't hear his own pathetic voice. All wavering and defeated. "I never want to put you in danger, Aziraphale, but. . . they're going to leave us alone, they said so. And even if they don't, why should they care who's flat we're in? Don't they have paperwork? Don't they have tempting and blessing and whatever to do? If they're going to come after us again, it won't be because we're-"

He stops himself. He's not entirely sure what he was going to say. He waits. He listens to Aziraphale's breathing, a bit rapid at the other end of the line. 

"I-" Aziraphale starts, then stops again. Crowley can hear the heartbeat of his damned human body in his head. 

"I should go, Dear. Awful lot to be doing. Here. At the bookshop. With my hobbies. I'll call you another night. Pip pip."

Aziraphale hangs up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all,  
> i went back and fixed some mistakes in the first chapter, if you'd like to go back and have a smoother reading experience. Please please tell me what you think of this so far - especially if you feel the characters are accurately depicted.  
> Thank you so much for reading  
> \- Static Mouth

Aziraphale reclines on a soft chair in the part of his bookshop building which serves as his home. The blinds are drawn, and he's got on a lovely deep blue silk robe. A nightgown, really, which allows him to retain his propriety in the comfort of his own solitude. He feels elegant in it, and as he sits reclined in his chair he runs his hand over a thigh. He sighs. He's put his book down for the time being, he thinks.

He looks over toward the telephone that he hung up hours ago, his heart pounding hard in his chest and his brain becoming so overfull with thoughts that he couldn't differentiate one from the next. He'd wanted so badly to say yes. He supposes, now, that's why he said no. 

It’s simply always what he'd done, in the past. The first time Crowley had ever suggested they do something more than meet someplace and talk, Aziraphale could almost feel the hellfire singing his being. Could feel himself crushed by the shame of ultimate failure as he burned to death. The worst traitor he would be, conspiring, fraternizing as he once called it, with a demon. 

Fraternizing. Crowley hadn't liked that. Even back then, it’d been clear that Crowley wanted something less. . . casual than what they had. The memory brings an ache to Aziraphale's chest.

Slowly, slowly, the two had increased the conspicuous nature of their meets. So slowly, in fact, that Aziraphale had hardly noticed it happening - the increased frequency of their escapades, the growing tenderness with which he regarded his companion. . . by the time he realized what was happening, Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to go back. Sure they'd spend a couple decades off doing their own thing, but Crowley always crossed his mind. He found himself having thoughts of true friendship. Of Love. And then the guilt hit. 

It would be so easy if he didn't care one way or the other about his serpentine friend. He could go about, suppressing his love for humanity, and acting out the great plan. Of course, with Crowley's push and leap of Faith, Aziraphale was shown just how rewarding it could be to take the risky path. To decide to think instead of suppress.

Aziraphale knows, sitting pensively and stroking the silk sheathing his body, that he couldn't imagine himself going back. Yes, it was terrifying, and Crowley had to push him over and over to get him to that point, but it was absolutely worth it. Maybe Crowley was a better being than he - less afraid to take risks for what he valued. 

I mean, it must have been a great risk for him, too, pleading with Aziraphale to go off with him. Convincing him into The Arrangement. Coming to save him when he just may have needed saving. Crowley had walked on consecrated ground for him, for goodness' sake! And Aziraphale was so, so scared to reciprocate. Of course, he did. He'd done a good amount of saving Crowley. He'd done a good amount of going out to eat with Crowley, and sharing Looks with Crowley, and at some point in there he'd even had the courage to admit to himself that he loves Crowley. Of course he does.

Sometimes he even finds himself wanting to bring Crowley in for a hug. To cushion him and protect him and let his own warmth bleed into Crowley's cold, sharp body. He feels something in his belly area heat up and flutter sometimes, when Crowley calls him "Angel" in that low, sinful voice, or when Crowley gives him a sly glance over his sunglasses, enchanting him with those fucking eyes, or when Crowley walks quickly ahead of Aziraphale, and his hips sway, and his ass in his tight jeans looks so delicious and-

Fuck. This. This is what scares him. Aziraphale snaps himself out of his thoughts. The thing is, if before, he and Crowley had. . . engaged in any of these . . . fantasies, like. Like if they had kissed, or if they had started spending nights together, or - Aziraphale sighs. If Heaven and Hell had figured out that Aziraphale was hopelessly pining after a demon? They could hurt Crowley just to get to Aziraphale. And fuck if it wouldn't absolutely work. Aziraphale knows, deep in his being, that he'd die for that demon any day.

But now. . . Crowley said - Crowley said that they weren’t watching anymore, and if they were, why would they care? Aziraphale tries to answer this question. They would care because it would fill them with a passionate disgust. So what? They were already passionately disgusted with various things all the time. Maybe they would care because if it were clear that Crowley and Aziraphale were close, Heaven and Hell would know to target one or the other in order to absolutely obliterate the other half. 

But, Aziraphale realizes, that didn’t matter now as much as he thought it did, did it? Heaven and Hell already had both parties on their hit list, tried to scratch them off, and failed. Now, either they were done, or they weren’t. If they were done, then Crowley and Aziraphale were safe. If they were not done, then the two were in danger. They were both in danger no matter how entangled they were with the other at that point. 

Aziraphale feels dizzy. Part of him wishes he hadn’t been thinking. Part of him wishes he could just keep Crowley at arms length and justify it by repeating to himself, I’m keeping us safe, I’m keeping us safe, I’m keeping us safe. But he wasn’t anymore, was he? Heaven and Hell already had their vendetta. The Angel and the Demon were on their radar, no matter how much time the two spent together. No matter the nature of their relationship. Fuck. And now that Aziraphale realizes this, he can feel that ball of desire and hope and overwhelming need coil up in him. 

He’s so overwhelmed. He can feel his heart beating in every part of his body. He can hardly breathe. He can’t just not breathe, he needs to breathe, he needs to keep his corporation alive. It’s okay, it’s okay, he tells himself, slowing his breathing. Counting his breaths. It’s okay.

Minutes pass. Aziraphale looks around. This is his reality now. His cozy bookshop. Alone. But he doesn’t have to be, does he? Not that he minds it, but. . . what would it be like to have his companion here with him, just for an evening? They could open up a few bottles of nice red and enjoy a takeaway, maybe, or maybe. . . maybe they could try to cook something together, like an old human couple. 

Aziraphale’s heart flutters, imagining them bickering at each other over ingredients. Imagining them getting playfully fired up and kissing in the middle of Aziraphale’s small kitchen. They would lock eyes - Crowley wouldn’t be wearing his sunglasses. He wouldn’t need to, in the privacy of Aziraphale’s flat. They would lock eyes and they would take a few steps and he would taste the wine on Crowley’s tongue and he would run his hand all over his lover’s sharp bones and firm muscles and Crowley would grip Aziraphale’s waist and and tell him he’s beautiful and maybe run his long, deft fingers over Aziraphale’s plush arse and squeeze, and Aziraphale would gasp into his lover’s mouth and - 

Aziraphale has pulled his robe to the side and has a hand wrapped around his cock. His abdomen is full of fire and the waves of the ocean and the acid in a hundred citrus fruits and he’s gasping, loudly and desperately, into the air in his bookshop flat, as he moves his hand, impossibly fast, seeking release. He wants it so fucking badly, more than almost anything else he’s ever wanted in six thousand years. He wants Crowley in overwhelmingly large, painful amounts. He wants Crowley to own him and love him and put his mouth all over Aziraphale’s skin. He wants Crowley so deep inside of him that they are one, pounding and pounding and twisting and fuck fuck fuck-

Aziraphale can hear his pathetic whimper echo around the room as his cock shoots long strands of semen all over his thighs and silken robe and white-gold belly hair. It’s a good thing he can miracle it out of the expensive fabric. He lies back, panting. 

He needs to have a talk with Crowley.


	3. chapter 3

Crowley lounges on his leather couch, upside down with his legs splayed out over the backrest, humming along to Queen. He’s been here for a few hours, simply listening and thinking about the lyrics. Some have been jumping out at him, infuriating and sometimes hurtful.  _ What the hell we fighting for/Just surrender and it won’t hurt at all.  _ Aziraphale’s face flashes in his head. 

_ Damn you, Angel. _

What the hell was he supposed to do? Just keep pushing? Or should he surrender? Let Aziraphale take the reins and decide what they are? He doesn't know, but he does know it’s not in his nature to give up on something he wants. And if there’s anything he wants, it’s to be able to call Aziraphale  _ his  _ Angel.

Then his phone makes a jolting noise, and he jumps. Fuck. Hoping desperately that it's Aziraphale, he struts over and picks it up. 

"Hello?"

"Crowley?" Aziraphale sounds. . . strange. Crowley can't quite place it at first. Uncertain? Anxious? Well, he usually sounds anxious. Resolute? Afraid? Confused? Crowley thinks that all of these sound about right. 

"Are you alright, Angel?" Crowley says, a bit quietly, the brash tone ever-present. Nevertheless, Aziraphale can surely hear the care in his voice. He knows Crowley well enough. 

"Yes, yes, I'm fine Crowley, I've just been thinking." 

"Ohhh,  _ good job, Aziraphale!" _

_ " _ Crowley!" Aziraphale says in his best fussy voice, chuckling a bit. "I am trying to talk to you about something important here!" 

"Sorry sorry, Angel, I'm sorry," Crowley says. The air between them is still lighthearted, but it's charged with something. On Crowley’s end, it's anticipation. He suspects it's the same on the other end. "What's up?"

"Oh. Quite. Yes. Well, um. . . uh, yes, okay, um-" Aziraphale cuts himself off and takes a deep breath. "Crowley, I was wondering if you might-" he cuts himself off again. 

“Come on, Angel, spit it out,” Crowley says, mocking impatience. “Whatever you’re about to ask me, the answer is yes.”

There’s a pause. “How do you know? I could be about to ask you to test some holy water for me, see if it’s the real thing,” Aziraphale says, sounding as if what he’s about to ask might kill him.

“You’re stalling, Angel. I’d do anything for you. Now spit it out.” Crowley is firm now, unwilling to let Aziraphale back out of asking for something. He’s so close. Just a step further. 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath from somewhere in his bookshop. “I need to talk to you, Crowley. Would you come over? Please?”

It’s not as if Crowley has never been to the bookshop before. Indeed, he’s been there many times since Aziraphale opened the thing up. What renders him dead-silent is Aziraphale asking for his company. He can’t recall a time when Aziraphale has ever made a first move so overtly like this. Obviously, he’s going to say yes. He just has to get his damn throat and mouth and whatever else to make the sounds.  _ Of course, Aziraphale, I’ll never turn you down, you have to know that.  _

“‘Course. Be there in a sec,” Crowley replies. Keep cool. Suave. He can’t act too eager; he might destroy Aziraphale’s fragile resolve. And nothing would be worse than Aziraphale taking his offer back. 

“Oh, jolly good, yes, um, well, bye then.” Aziraphale hangs up. Crowley can picture his cheeks and nose dusted with evidence of his flustered state and he whirls around grinning wildly at the first plant he lays eyes on. 

“He asked me to come over to the bookshop! He said please! He wants me still!” Crowley starts off, venting his elation to the large spider-plant in front of him. “He sounded so afraid! Of course, I never want him to be afraid. We’ll set that straight right away. But that means it’s something serious! Fuck - that means it something  _ serious.” _

It occurs to Crowley, now, that  _ something serious _ could, possibly, not involve Aziraphale confessing his everlasting love to Crowley. It could, in fact, involve just the opposite. Maybe Aziraphale was so nervous because he was about to break off a 6,000-year-long friendship. Crowley’s corporation is a bubbling cauldron of excitement, dread, hope, and disappointment. 

“Fuck.”

That’s all Crowley can think as he looks over his appearance briefly. He’s changed it up a bit. Yes, it’s his normal tight black jeans, shoes, and a black suit jacket, but the shirt he wears under is a deep, passionate purple with black buttons. He messes with his hair a bit - it’s still short, and he works his fingers through it until it’s appropriately messy. He looks - pretty average, for him. Well, it’s not as if Aziraphale doesn’t know what he looks like. Not likely Crowley’s appearance will have much of an effect on whatever Aziraphale has to talk to him about. His gut churns again and he turns on his heel towards the door. 

The bookshop is as it always is - warm, quiet, smelling of dust and old paper and Aziraphale’s cologne. Crowley takes a deep inhale and revels in it, allowing tenderness to cross his face. There’s no way Aziraphale is going to leave him, is there? Just because Armageddon has been avoided, and there’s no reason for them to continue the arrangement. . . that doesn’t mean Aziraphale is done with him, does it? Not when Aziraphale’s scent calms him and feels so right. Not when Crowley has no idea what his life would be without the angel in it. Surely Aziraphale feels the same? 

And here he comes, out of the back somewhere.

“Angel,” Crowley says, fully aware that there is tension in his voice and choosing to ignore it. He spreads his arms wide as he says it. “Lay it on me.”

“Crowley. . .” Aziraphale starts, looking down, flustered and overwhelmed. Crowley makes a note to treat him gently. “Would you like a drink?”

Crowley considers it. “Whiskey,” he says. “Please.” He figures that if their conversation leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, the whiskey will wash it away with a different one. 

Aziraphale gives a curt nod. “Please, sit,” he says, gesturing vaguely behind him. He seems to be gesturing at nothing, but Crowley knows the little nook he’s talking about and heads in that direction, settling down in a chair and laying his crossed legs over an armrest, sitting sideways. He can feel his heart going a million beats per minute; funny how his corporation translates his fallen-star feelings so well. 

Aziraphale returns, holding a glass rather generously filled with whiskey, and a mug of tea for himself. He sits, back straight, more tense than a bowstring fully pulled back. 

“Right then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this whole chapter is tension and buildup! Except I'm not really though :) don't worry though! we will have many a nice release soon ;)


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale feels like he’s about to jump off a cliff and he doesn’t know what’s below. How far can he take this conversation? He wants to tell Crowley so many things - but where to start? What’s his main goal? He has to organize his thoughts. His main goal is to simply  _ be  _ with Crowley. To go to the park with him. To go to dinners with him. To be able to go to his flat and spend an evening. He knows he can manage those things without too much deeply-ingrained guilt. He knows he can manage telling Crowley that much, at least. 

“I think. . . I think that we need to talk about where we stand,” Aziraphale starts out. The words feel like they’re being ripped out of his throat. His heart is beating hard, his face feels too warm, and Crowley looks so silently terrified before him that concern for his friend almost distracts him from his message. He knows that Crowley is just nervous because he doesn’t really  _ do  _ serious conversations. But as soon as this is over with, everything can go back to normal between them. Aziraphale just has to get it over with. 

“You sound so nervous, Angel,” Crowley says. “It’s not bad news, is it?” Aziraphale can tell Crowley is trying to keep his almost-always-solid composure just that, but it’s clear that his sensitive demon friend is on the verge of breaking down. 

“No, no no Crowley, everything is okay, between us, I mean, I just mean that, with no need for the arrangement-”

“We don’t need the arrangement anymore, no, we’re not being watched, we presumably have no quota to fill, but that doesn’t mean we can’t still. . . right?”

What Crowley was leaving out of his sentence is a mystery to Aziraphale, and his stomach makes a turn about 180 degrees. Crowley is frantic, and the feeling of it is overwhelming for Aziraphale. He finds his mind clouded by the emotion wafting off of his friend and before he’s knocked off course, he knows he needs to calm Crowley down.

“Crowley, please! Don’t you trust me?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Then please just listen for a minute.” Aziraphale can hear the pleading in his voice. This shouldn’t be so hard, so emotional. Why is it so emotional? He clears his throat. “Look, Crowley, I just want to make sure that you still want to. . . to be involved with me. I know I’m not very similar to you and I’m fussy and I’m an angel or - whatever I am now but. . . We’re friends, I think.” He considers it. “No, I’m sure of it. We  _ are  _ friends, Crowley, and I like you, and I quite like being around you and doing things together, and I suppose I just want to make sure you feel the same way.”

Crowley’s whole body has relaxed into the armchair. He starts to grin and giggle, relieved as one could be. After a couple dramatic breaths of relief, he says, “Fuck, Angel, you got all worked up just to make sure I still like you?” he asks, incredulous. “Thought you were gonna tell me you were leaving. Thought you had something really heavy weighing on you, Angel, the way you sounded all terrified over the phone. Of course I still like you. How many times have I practically begged for you to hang out with me?”

Aziraphale is grinning now, too. He doesn’t know why he got all worked up in the first place - but - yes he does. But Crowley still wants to be his friend, still wants to “hang out,” as he so eloquently put it. How could he tell his established Friend that he had fucked his own fist the other night, imagining Crowley was filling him up inside and claiming him? Even worse, that he had done it multiple times over the years, only to be drowned by his own religious and sexual guilt? He simply can’t say what is on his mind. Not when Crowley is sure to stay with him now, and certainly not when the subject matter is so embarrassing.

He’s been silent far too long, bashfully looking down, his ears a bit red, his body a bit. . . excited. Not enough to be in any way noticeable, but Crowley gives him a concerned look.

“Awe, come now, Angel, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Truthfully, I’d have asked you this same thing if you hadn’t had the courage to do it first. And it  _ is _ a big deal. We don’t have to hide our relations now. We could, dare I say, fraternize openly.” He sounds the slightest bit bitter, but not enough that he even seems to notice it himself. Aziraphale notices, though.

“You know, Crowley, when I said fraternizing. . . I was simply too scared to admit to myself that we were friends. I lied, when I said I didn’t need you.” His voice goes soft at the end, and he gives a slight upward glance through his light-colored lashes at Crowley, whose cheeks are the slightest bit pink. When Crowley speaks next, it sounds like he’s surprised that Aziraphale would ever admit such a thing.

“I - I know, Angel, I know. It just. . . hurt. At first. I know you didn’t mean it. I didn’t either.”

“I know.”

There’s slightly charged silence in the room, and Crowley takes the last swig of his drink before flinging himself off his chair into a standing position. He holds his hand out to Aziraphale, grinning. 

“Lunch?” he asks.

“I would love that.”

The drive to the shoppe is a bit too fast, but Aziraphale thinks it’s worth it.

“Thank you for taking me to lunch, Crowley, my friend,” he says, not quite sure why he feels the need to express gratitude, since - 

“It’s not even one of the first hundred times, Angel, why’re you thanking me?” he asks.

“Well, I suppose it’s our first outing as official friends.”

“We were friends before.”

“Well, I suppose so, but then I was still. . . There was a barrier. On my side. A wall. You know.”

“Yeah, I do know. It’s okay. I’d have waited eternity for you.” He falls silent again, smiling softly as he drives far too fast for a small shopping centre. He pulls up to the small sandwich shoppe, and Aziraphale’s mouth starts watering. 

“I maintain, Crowley, that food and eating are some of the best things about being human. You ought to do more of it. It’s good for the soul.

“Well, maybe you ought to try more sleeping then,” Crowley counters. It feels just like normal, the way they’ve always passed quips back-and-forth, and the realization fills Aziraphale with a shimmering relief. The tingle of happiness remains in his limbs as he orders a sandwich with roast beef, a lovely cheese, and a bountiful pile of vegetables, snugly fit between two pieces of whole-wheat bread. Aziraphale loves the crunch of the various grains between his teeth. Crowley orders a coffee (it’s the evening, for heaven’s sake), and a beautiful salad, with every color appearing in food - beautiful green and purple leaves of various shades, tomatoes of yellow and red, avocado, and the shavings of carrot and cucumber. Aziraphale imagines he’ll be stealing half of it, and urging Crowley to eat more than the quarter he was likely to consume. He smiles at the thought. Everything’s the same as it always has been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! please leave a comment hnnnng
> 
> On another note, if you want to help me save up for top surgery and pay my bills, my PayPal is Squidler12@gmail.com. feel free to email me also about fic requests!


	5. Chapter 5

Everything’s the same that evening, as well, when Crowley drops Aziraphale back at his bookshop and heads home. Looking back on the moment before Aziraphale steps into the car, he remembers the open vision of a wish on Crowley’s face. 

“Where to for the night, Angel?” his friend had asked, as if the answer would ever be allowed to be anything besides the bookshop. But he wanted so badly to go to Crowley’s, he remembers, and still, all he wants is to have made a different choice. He wants to be exploring Crowley’s space, and exploring his friend too, with those gentle touches he’d forced himself not to indulge in for the last thousand years. 

_ Some things just aren’t appropriate for an angel and a demon, _ Aziraphale tells himself.  _ But is that what we are, anymore?  _

_ What does it matter? You mustn’t. You mustn’t just gorge yourself on everything you want.  _

_ Why ever not? That’s what I’ve always done. I’ve never before held back from the parts of humanity that I love - why would I start now? _

Neither version of Aziraphale knows the answer. Perhaps this unnamable fear of his is too human for him to ever put his finger on. 

But now - he can focus his attention again on the present, and it will all be fine. At first he tries to read. Upon discovering that his mind simply refuses to focus enough to register more than a few sentences at a time, he changes his tactic. It feels wrong, somehow, to fantasize so much about his friend. And it’s been getting more and more frequent these days. But Aziraphale, after another quick fight with himself, gives into the temptation - one that Crowley probably isn’t even aware of. He thinks about how Crowley looked during their long lunch - that gorgeous, deep purple shirt - Aziraphale thinks he wants to see how it compliments the demon’s eyes. He wishes Crowley would have taken off his glasses at any point during their time together today, wearing that passionately dark outfit with just that pop of color. Aziraphale’s mouth waters and his chest aches. For what?

He asks himself again, what does he want? Well. . . he wants Crowley. He wants Crowley in every way he can have him. He wants Crowley to look at him unguarded. He wants to be in as close contact with Crowley as he possibly can. He wants to make love with his demon. He wants to make love with a demon. Shouldn’t that be wrong? But no, it’s not wrong if it’s just fantasy, right? So again, he lets himself go. Why does he even try to resist anymore?

He wants Crowley to walk up behind him right now, and lay a hand on his shoulder. He would bend down and whisper in Aziraphale’s ear,  _ I just couldn’t let you walk away from me again, Angel.  _ And Aziraphale would turn around and kiss Crowley, passionately, with all the fire he’d been saving up for longer than he cared to think about right now. He would pull Crowley around the armchair and then pull him on top of his own lap, so that his light fantasy-lover would be straddling him with those lean, strong thighs. They would kiss for so long that Aziraphale would finally stop being afraid that Crowley would break off, deciding this wasn’t what he really wanted. They would kiss for so long that their essences would flow from one to the other and Aziraphale would become lost in sensation, outside of the grasp of time, cradled in a demon’s arms. And then Crowley would lick his neck, kiss it, bite it, and Aziraphale would be thrilled to experience every sensation Crowley offered him up. 

Aziraphale sits on his armchair as images flash before his eyes. He pulls away all of the cloth in his path, intent on spending as long with this tonight as he pleased, and dips a finger between his legs, having changed it up down there today. He keeps it dry at first, so he can rub his swollen clit with more accuracy, but then, as the Crowley in his mind enters him, he presses his finger in, letting out a pillowy moan. He relishes in the feeling of wiggling his finger around, pushing it indulgently against his g-spot and whimpering. As Crowley thrusts, he moves his finger, and he inserts another, and then another. With three fingers pressed into his body, the stretch is a bit much, but the image of Crowley makes him so embarrassingly wet and wanting that he keeps going, rubbing his thumb against his clit with every motion of his hand. 

He imagines what it would look like from above, Crowley’s lythe back, muscles rippling, his ass tensing and relaxing over and over, a beautiful sculpted creature, owning Aziraphale, taking him and making Aziraphale his. And  _ fuck, fuck _ Aziraphale wants to be  _ owned _ , he wants to be  _ pleading  _ and  _ whining  _ below Crowley for more of him. He wants Crowley in every single way possible. He wants to be wrapped up in the essence of his counterpart, screaming in ecstasy. He can hear himself now, in the cold emptiness of his lonely flat, filling the air with his desperate noises.

“ _ Hnnn, please _ , fuck fuck fuck  _ fuck, Crowley make me yours -” _

  
He lets out a loud cry as his orgasm hits him, a spasm running through him and making him curl into himself like a sheet of paper on fire, burning up and beautiful and perfect. He rubs slowly, gently now, as he works himself through it, picturing his imaginary lover collapsing on top of him, stroking his hair and his wings and telling him how much he’s adored. Aziraphale can just barely imagine Crowley growling in his ear,  _ I love you, I love you, My Angel. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! please leave me a comment about what you enjoyed, or what you thought, or about your day, or anything at all!
> 
> email me @squidler12@gmail.com if you want to make a one-shot request or commission a longer work!
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	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends,  
> tell me what you think! please please leave me a comment!  
> email me @squidler12@gmail.com for requests or commissions

It’s a nice late-afternoon. In fact, all the late-afternoons (and mornings, noons, early afternoons, and evenings) had seemed nice to Crowley since Aziraphale had his. . . thing. His thing where he seemed to relinquish some of his I-Can’t-Not-Do-What-I’m-Told trait and let Crowley in. Of course, Crowley knows he’s been the angel’s friend for ages and ages. But Aziraphale had always been all, “We can’t be friends,” and “We’re hereditary enemies,” and “I don’t need you,” and “I don’t even like you,” and it was so  _ painful.  _ Not just because Crowley was, of course, being rejected. Naturally, that bit hurt. But it was the fact that Aziraphale was so clearly denying himself. Crowley could see the pain contorting the angel’s face every time he said such things - Aziraphale is an artist when it came to being cruel to himself. If there were awards for denying yourself what you truly wanted, Aziraphale would surely have a collection. Sure, Aziraphale ate nice food, and wore nice clothes, and collected books, and allowed himself solitary comforts; but Aziraphale, for a being of love, didn’t ever allow himself to be on the receiving end of such a thing. It breaks Crowley’s warmer-than-he’d-like-to-admit heart.

So seeing Aziraphale smiling with abandon the last few days, allowing himself outings with Crowley which last all day (never into the night, still, but that’s besides the point), has filled Crowley with relief. A feeling blossoms in his chest, now and then, which is overwhelmingly warm and un-demon-like, and he thinks Hell would probably make fun of him endlessly for ever feeling such a thing. Or perhaps do something worse. Crowley shoves this line of thought aside - Aziraphale is going through a lot of internal work to reject the expectations ingrained in him. Crowley can do the same. After all, he’s never cared quite as much about what Hell expects of him as Aziraphale has cared about the stifling expectations of Heaven. The thought of Upstairs fills Crowley with more resentment the longer he lives. 

Anyway. Before Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale is allowing himself to finally be Aziraphale - the perfect, beautiful, light, lovely being, finally without shackles around his heart. Crowley gives a little bounce, and then immediately gives a glare to the beautiful, lush greenery surrounding him on all sides.  _ You didn’t see that, _ it says.  _ I’m menacing, _ it says. His glower says neither thing very convincingly, though.

Still, Crowley can’t push away the occasional wave of overpowering longing for something more from Aziraphale during the times the two go out. Crowley longs to grasp Aziraphale’s hand, or put a hand on the small of his back, or reach over and cup the angel’s face in his hand. It’s only the fear of moving too fast for Aziraphale that stops him at the last moment. He wonders if Aziraphale will ever allow these things to go on. He desperately hopes so. 

Crowley exits his front door, small cooler in hand, and flicks a finger to snap the lock into place. Sure, he’s “miracled” an air of I-Don’t-Want-To-Enter-That-Flat in his general area, but one can never be too careful. He hops into the Bentley and turns it on, immediately jumping and turning the volume down on the Taylor Swift album he’d been listening to last night on his way home. Hey, it’s a guilty pleasure. She’s not that bad, after all, if not exactly his normal. He taps on the steering wheel to a more Him album - Queen again - as he speeds through the streets. He hasn’t yet told Aziraphale what they’re doing today. It’s rather a romantic spot, Primrose Hill, especially for watching the sunset. Crowley love’s sunsets - the brilliant colors have never ceased to fill him with awe and an all-encompassing peace. 

Stopped at the bookshop, Crowley gets out of the car and saunters through the door, listening to the familiar bell ring and inhaling the lovely scent of old books, dust, and sweets. Of course, before meeting Aziraphale, none of these scents would have struck his fancy. Alas, through the good will of the universe or whatever it may have been, he befriended an angel, and grew to love everything associated with him. 

He doesn’t see Aziraphale when he walks in. Nor does he find him in the back.

“‘Ziraphale?” he calls out, hearing his own voice echo between the shelves.

In response, he hears a yelp and a thud from above him. Ah. Aziraphale must still be getting ready. 

“Be down in a minute!” shouts the voice from above, in his posh accent. Crowley pictures the angel struggling with buttons in his flustered state. Then he pictures Aziraphale struggling with his buttons in the reverse direction.  _ Although, that’s not right, _ he thinks.  _ I would be the one undressing him. _ His face warms a bit at the thought and he’s startled out of a blooming fantasy when Aziraphale appears from coming down the stairs, a classic-looking picnic basket carried in both lovely, soft hands. 

“I’m so sorry about that, dear, I spilled tea on myself and had to change at the last moment,” Aziraphale says, rather sheepishly.

“It’s no problem, Angel.”

“Do I get to find out where we’re going now?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley shakes his head.

“Nope, ‘fraid it’s a surprise until we get there.” He would wink, but his glasses would render the action useless, so he doesn’t. 

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale says, giving a little wiggle. “I’m rather excited to see what you’ve got in store for me.”

Something about the way Aziraphale says it makes Crowley’s insides squirm pleasantly. He sounds conspiratorial and a tad suggestive, as he sometimes does. Crowley wonders if Aziraphale is aware of just how  _ tempting _ he is, or if it goes right over his head. 

“Yes, well, I’m rather excited to show you,” he replies, putting the same barely-detectable suggestiveness in his voice on purpose. It’s only fair. Aziraphale looks at him, and then looks down, and then at him and then down again, giving a small smile and beginning to head towards the door. Crowley saunters after. 

The drive isn’t long, and the sun is getting lower in the sky. Crowley is filled with anticipation. When they get close enough to see the large park, Crowley steals a glance at Aziraphale. The golden hour lighting makes his features glow ethereally. Crowley can’t take his eyes off the angel until Aziraphale catches his eyes and says, sternly, “Eyes on the  _ road _ , Crowley.” Shit - caught staring. Oh well, it’s not as if he isn’t staring at Aziraphale at all times, he figures. 

“Crowley. . . are we going to Primrose Hill?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, Crowley. . . it’s such a beautiful spot.” Aziraphale’s voice sounds wistful and warm, and a bit baffled. Crowley understands why. This is different to what they usually do. Surely Aziraphale has felt love radiating from the spot many a time from people of all ages and genders on their park dates. The implications are clear, he knows. He’s relieved that Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind. The angel, in fact, is smiling in awe.

“Thought it might be nice,” Crowley mumbles. “Thought you might like it.”

“Oh, absolutely, my dear. It’s the perfect picnic spot. And right in time for the sunset!” He sounds elated. Crowley suppresses his puppy-love grin. He has an image to maintain. 

And it is the perfect time and place. As they get out of the car, carrying their respective baskets (or coolers) and a soft blanket, Crowley resolves to take Aziraphale’s hand as the sun sets. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! thank you for reading and Blease leave me a comment if you are so inclined!

_ The top of Primrose Hill truly does have the perfect view of the sunset,  _ thinks Aziraphale. But truthfully, he’s just trying not to stare too much at his companion. Crowley sits next to him on the softer-than-soft blanket with one of his knees pulled up to his chest, and the other elegantly spread before him. His arms are wrapped around the elevated knee and his back is almost-straight, so that he looks carefree and perfect, his hair gleaming fiery in the setting sun. His head is tilted just so as he speaks with Aziraphale, who thinks he could probably cut his own skin open on Crowley’s dangerous jawline. 

“Aziraphale?” 

“Yeah - sorry. You were saying?”

Crowley chuckles. “You seem a bit distracted tonight, Angel.” It comes out as a gentle rumble. Aziraphale has lost track of whatever they had been talking about, entranced by the moment just before, when time had stood still while he regarded Crowley. He wonders if it’s the inherent romance of the location charging the air between them, but it doesn’t matter; it’s not scaring him as much as it normally would. 

“No, no I just -” Aziraphale cuts himself off. He takes a breath. He doesn’t have to deny everything like this all the time, not anymore. He can feel his face soften as he openly looks back up again. Crowley has a guarded smirk on his face, but it falls right off as soon as he sees the cautious, sweet look on Aziraphale’s face.

“Angel?”

“Crowley. . .”

Crowley looks expectant now, and curious, and painfully hopeful. Aziraphale can’t bring himself to disappoint.

“Maybe I am distracted, Crowley. How could I not be?”

“Wha’d’you mean?”

“You’re aflame with the sun’s rays, Crowley. It’s most becoming.”

“I’m -” Crowley stutters. “Most be - aflame? Angel - What’s gotten into you?”

The words could easily be implying nerves, or offense, or something of the like, but the look on Crowley’s face is more like he’s just witnessed the birth of the first living creature, and he’s never seen anything more astonishing and wonderful. 

“I just - I - never mind,” Aziraphale starts, losing his nerve. Maybe he shouldn’t have said it. He doesn’t know why, but something in him feels like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff. 

“No, no Angel, please. Let go. Tell me what you think. Please.” Crowley is begging. He pulls his sunglasses off, and his eyes are longing, and they gleam in a way that has Aziraphale’s stomach turning. And then, he reaches out with a long-fingered hand. At first Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do. He looks at it. He looks at his own hand. He lifts his own hand up, his nails glinting orange. In a moment of immense daring, he extends it, and Crowley meets it in the air, lacing their fingers together with a sigh of relief. Aziraphale takes a deep breath. It’s like everything he’s ever known is collapsing. 

“Crowley I -”

“Please.”

“I just - I simply. . . I think you’re the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes on, is all.” 

He rushes the words out, certain that if he doesn’t say them quickly he won’t be able to say them at all. Why? It’s nothing very new, even; of course Crowley had to have known this. But then again, the expression Crowley has on his face says otherwise. He’s collapsing, imploding, flying, all while he sits unharmed and astonished, holding onto Aziraphale’s hand for dear life. 

“Angel - I could never be anything above second most beautiful,” he states simply, words he’s thought for eternity. 

“Oh, Crowley, you can’t possibly mean -”

“I do. I mean it, Angel. I’ve always thought so. Always.” It’s one of the truest things he’s ever said. Aziraphale thinks his companion might be looking into his very essence right now, given the intensity of the gaze. He shudders, suddenly  _ very  _ self-conscious. He tightens his grip on Crowley's hand before releasing it and turning. 

"I don't know what to say," he starts, but Crowley lovingly interrupts him again. 

"You don't have to say anything. Let's enjoy the sunset."

"Yes, it is quite extraordinary. And the food-!" Aziraphale responds. The picnic they've brought is quite the arrangement. Crowley has roasted vegetables, cut up fruits, and braised various meats for them. Aziraphale has baked a small cake, and brought a variety of fancy chocolates. Primrose Hill is a serene picture of decadence - Aziraphale's favorite kind of serene picture. He pops a chocolate in his mouth with a sigh of pleasure and Crowley's pupils dilate slightly as he watches. Aziraphale knows Crowley has a thing for watching him eat. Of course, he's never said anything. He thinks he'll still leave it unmentioned now, even after something has changed between them; he rather likes the attention, and it'd be a shame if Crowley were to get embarrassed and stop.

Crowley smiles. "I'm glad you like it."

The moment of opacity from before seems to have passed. The air feels normal again, laced with a contentedness common for the pair on the hill. The gold highlights the two as they sit, Crowley eating the occasional vegetable or chocolate, his un-hidden eyes focusing all the real hunger he feels on Aziraphale. The angel still pretends not to notice as he bites into a cube of honeydew melon impossibly juicy, and licks his fingers. He's enjoying his performance nearly as much as Crowley is. He takes a large bite of cake and hums as he chews, closing his eyes with a small smile. He eats this way when he's alone, it's true, but maybe he plays it up just a bit when he has an audience. 

"Angel?"

Aziraphale swallows. "Yes Crowley?"

"How are you getting along, really? With Heaven not contacting you and all?” 

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale starts, and then he pauses. He hasn’t, honestly, felt as lost as he always thought he might if heaven abandoned him. He supposes that if the circumstances had been different, he might feel more alone or betrayed or guilty. But, he thinks - 

“It’s odd, but it’s actually quite nice.”

“Really? You’re not. . . not doing too badly, then? Adjusting okay?” Crowley sounds surprised, and his gravelly voice is tentative. 

“I thought I’d feel worse than I do, but. . . I feel rather free. Cautiously, of course. I can’t just let all of heaven go at once. But yes, I suppose I’m doing quite well. Enjoying my days.”

Crowley grins. “That’s excellent, Angel.” 

“I suppose it is.”

They fall into a comfortable silence again. There’s more food than they could finish by themselves in an evening, but they make fairly good work of it. Crowley even finds it in his stomach to enjoy quite a bit of meat. By the time they’re wrapping up, it’s long fallen dark. Aziraphale has illuminated their space with a small globe of amber light, poised in a tree nearby. It’s just as enchanting on Crowley as the sunset was, and Aziraphale finds it overwhelming how much he wants to stay with Crowley tonight. And what’s stopping him?

The automatic answer in his head is that it’s wrong. But when Crowley took his hand earlier that evening, nothing had felt more  _ right _ . He takes a deep breath. Crowley looks at him. It’s now or never. Well, maybe it’s just now or later. But Aziraphale knows this is what he wants. 

“It’s getting late,” he starts off.

“So it is. . . I suppose you’ll be needing a lift?” Crowley asks. He never specifies where to. Aziraphale knows he’ll ask. He always does. 

“Yes, please.”

They pack up and walk to the Bentley. 

“Well. Where to, Angel?” There’s always a slightly different question just behind the one Crowley always asks. 

A breath.

“Your place, if you don’t mind.”


	8. Chapter 8

Crowley’s poor human heart is racing, translating his overpowering occult-being emotions into quite an uncomfortable sensation inside his rapidly-moving chest. He finds it impossible, for a few moments, to breathe, let alone respond. This is unexpected. This is  _ very  _ unexpected. But this is the best moment of Crowley’s. . . who knows. He doesn’t have much time to be dumbstruck, though. 

“Wherever you want, Angel, always. Get in,” he says, his voice floaty and the color of the night sky. He opens the door for Aziraphale, who nervously sits and begins wringing his hands. The drive is tense, and Crowley figures he should say  _ something  _ to fill the silence, but he can’t so he turns the music up a tiny bit. Aziraphale hums and leans his head back, eyes closed, and Crowley finds it almost impossible to take his eyes off of his companion. They make it safely to the flat, however, and Crowley turns the key.

They don’t get out.

“It’s not much,” Crowley says. He doesn’t know what he has to hide - surely Aziraphale won’t care too much about the state of his modest flat. But there’s something thick and heavy in the air, and Crowley doesn’t know if it’s okay or not. 

“Oh, I’m sure it’s just lovely.” Aziraphale’s voice is thick with anticipation. 

“I have some wine -”

“Why are you stalling, Crowley? Don’t you want this?”

“I - of course I do. I’ve wanted this for so long, Aziraphale.” He doesn’t know, exactly, what it is Aziraphale is asking - but if Aziraphale thinks there’s a single thing he might not want from the angel, he’s dreadfully wrong. 

Aziraphale’s response is barely a whisper. 

“I know.”

So they get out, and they enter the flat, and they sit down - rather far apart, crowley notices - and they talk. And Aziraphale notices the minimalist decor and compliments it, and Crowley’s traitorous heart can surely be heard across the couch. And suddenly Aziraphale is next to him. 

“You know, Crowley, I think God wanted this.”

“Wh - wanted what, exactly?” 

“This. Us. It’s all so perfect.”

“I can’t say I disagree. . . but d’you care to explain further?”

“There’s always been something pulling us toward each other. I know you feel it.”

“What I feel is - well - I don’t know if it’s divine in nature, really.”

“Hm. . . What do you feel, Crowley?”

The question turns Crowley’s stomach. It sounds like a challenge more than a question, even - it sounds like Aziraphale wants a confession out of him. And of course, Crowley is inclined to give Aziraphale anything he wants.

“I - you know. You know already, why are you asking?”

“Clarity, Crowley. I want us to be open. No more of this dancing around each other. I’m ready. Full speed ahead, and such. Go on,” he says, an out-of-character confidence coloring his little monologue.

“Shit, Angel, okay, if that’s what you want. If you’re ready. For this. Yeah. Sure, sure. I. . .” And suddenly he finds it impossible to start. His throat catches. He clears it and it catches again. It takes far too many attempts. 

“Shit, Angel. Okay um, we’ll start with. . . We’ll start with how I want to be around you constantly. I always want to be with you. Everything is better and lovelier with you around.” It’s hard to start, but once he does, it just flows. “And I think that, if I were an artist, I’d want to recreate you in every different setting, in every different pose, from every different angle, in every medium, and each new piece would be my new favorite. And I want to touch you.  _ God  _ I want to touch you. So badly. And I want to curl up around you when I sleep. And - if that’s not clarity, then I don’t know how to help you.”

“You love me,” Aziraphale says, simply. 

“I - yeah. That. I suppose.”

“And what could be more divine than love?”

“I don’t know if you understand the extent of my feelings, Aziraphale -”

“Then why don’t you show me?”

“I- fuck,” he starts off, unsure where to start. “I don’t know if I should.” Why is his voice shaking? He shakes his head. This isn’t like what he’s used to. For once, Aziraphale is barrelling forward too quickly for him, and he has to make sure it’s the right thing before he jumps off the cliff. 

Aziraphale is looking at his sunglasses and reaching out to grab them off his face, and Crowley lets him. He sees Aziraphale’s face contort with worry as soon as his eyes are visible. 

“Crowley, what’s wrong?”

“I’m just worried this isn’t really what you want.”

“Crowley. . . I love you too. It just took me a while to get here.” Aziraphale’s voice is gentle now, less frantic, and it puts Crowley at ease. “Can I-” he starts off, glancing down at Crowley’s lips and leaning forward slightly.

Crowley just stares, eyes locked on plush lips. He doesn’t want to scare Aziraphale. He nods tentatively, lips parting, as if a quick movement would make Aziraphale change his mind. Then his eyes flutter closed as Aziraphale presses his impossibly soft lips against Crowley’s, just a whisper, and Crowley feels surrounded by nothing but the sensation. He lets Aziraphale lead as a gentle press becomes a firmer and more confident series of kisses building in intensity. Crowley’s heartbeat speeds and his breath follows suit, and he finally acts on his unbearable need to wrap Aziraphale in his arms. He tangles one hand in Aziraphale’s hair, taking care not to pull, and leans into every press of Aziraphale’s half-open lips as if he’s starving. Inch by inch the two end up horizontal on the couch, Aziraphale acting as Crowley’s blanket, attempting frantically to make up for centuries of contact, as Crowley can no longer stop the soft sounds he’s making, a way to thank his lover and plead for more. He can feel Aziraphale’s erection and the angel is burning up above him and Crowley desperately wants to remove the clothing in between them, but he’s too caught up in their kisses to form any words. Instead, he paws at Aziraphale’s buttons and whimpers, and Aziraphale smiles into their kiss and pasues just long enough to say, “Yes, please.”

It’s enough for Crowley. He begins undoing the buttons, only fumbling a little bit, still catching his lips on Aziraphale’s at every opportunity. The vest comes loose and Crowley pushes it off, feeling the shape of Aziraphale’s arms on his way, their fullness and firmness, a growl - or a purr - rumbling through his throat. If they proceed, he’s certain he wants to proceed  _ all the way. _ It’s something he’s wanted forever. He rests a hand at the top of Aziraphale’s ironed button-up shirt.

“Can I have you, Angel?” he asks weakly, panting now with the thought. Aziraphale whines.

“Please, Crowley, I want us to be joined,” comes the response, whispered and needy, and Aziraphale adjusts his hips to rub against Crowley’s. And that’s the last straw for Crowley. He sits and reverses their position on the couch, so that he’s leaning over his lover, and begins on another set of buttons. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please give me a comment!


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